


To Your Health

by nymja



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, send off for chekov, slight Beyond spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7623694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chekov raises a glass. “To getting back in the air, yes?”</p><p>McCoy rolls his eyes, but makes a half-hearted clink. “To the thinner blood and hollower bones that come with it.”</p><p>--</p><p>Five drinks between Leonard McCoy and Pavel Chekov.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Your Health

 

 **\--  
** **One**.  
\--

  
McCoy knows what it means to be adrift. And there’s something about the _The Enterprise,_ even when it’s broken, that makes them all cling to the spare parts. Maybe it’s something with the air--McCoy, better than most, knows about long-term effects of the big black empty on innards. The thinned-out blood, the hollowed bones, the curved spines. They say in all the paperwork that they haven’t had any reports of long-term space sickness in the last couple hundred years. But he’s certain there’s some kind of phenomena that makes them all come back. If it’s not medical, it’s damn sure gravitational, though he’s always been a better doctor than a physicist.

 

So here he is. A week after getting back from that hell planet and sitting in the bar. Looking at the damn saucer and wondering how much scotch he can drink alone before he starts to feel guilty about it.

 

He gets his answer: three. Because it’s on the third drink that he sees one of the other pieces of debris circling round the drain. Chekov enters the bar with slow movements, inching toward the window before the actual _bar_ and giving a small smile out at the hulking image of _The Enterprise._ Not for the first time, McCoy thinks it’s all very strategic--he doubts it’s a coincidence that the best view of their ship comes from one of Kirk’s favorite haunts in Yorktown.

 

But it’s a coincidence that works well for him and has good reserves to boot, so to hell with it.

 

McCoy swishes the last of his glass between his teeth, before he sets it back carefully down on the coaster. Then he clears his throat. Not too loud, but loud enough.

 

Chekov turns, his smile widening. “Mr. McCoy!”

 

“Hey kid.” He gives a nod to the chair across from him. “Take a seat.”

 

It’s going to be a long time until they get off the ground again. But here they are, objects pulling toward each other--McCoy finds he doesn’t mind the condition. Even though it is without a doubt a condition.

 

Because if it’s not a condition, whatever it is that keeps this crew together is a miracle. And as a general rule, McCoy’s not too fond of those.

 

\--

 

Chekov’s eyes go wide when McCoy orders him a bottle. It cost about three times what it should. He looks up, blinking. “What’s this?”

 

“Scotch.”

 

“Any particular reason for it?”

 

“I owed you one.”

 

McCoy grins despite himself at the kid’s befuddled look, and leans back in his chair. After a moment, Chekov shakes his head and leans back in a mimicry.

 

“You know,” and there’s a hint of mischief in the kid’s grin, “I started drawing lines on the bottles. To mark where I left off drinking.”

 

McCoy snorts. “Course you did. For how long?”

 

“Two months.”

 

“Damn, guess I owe you three.”

 

“Don’t worry, Doctor, no one’s counting.”

 

The pair of them sit together and watch the center of their universe pull itself together in the distance.

  
\--

**Two.**

\--  


The ship’s finally ready to fly. And the bar’s in full swing, as it always is when they get the full crew together. The music’s too damn loud to think, no doubt something devised by Jaylah. And McCoy is content to find a quiet corner to participate in when he feels a quick doubletap on his shoulder.

 

He raises his brows. “What?”

 

Chekov has a shit-eating grin on his face. And all he does is raise two fingers.

 

“Thought we weren’t counting.”

 

“I figured it was time for celebration.”

 

McCoy sighs. “Fine.” And gets out his wallet. “But then we’re even.”

 

“Of course, doctor.”

 

“And I want half of the first one.”

 

“Naturally.”

 

The price on bottles has gone up. Bastards.

 

\--

 

Chekov raises a glass. “To getting back in the air, yes?”

 

McCoy rolls his eyes, but makes a half-hearted clink. “To the thinner blood and hollower bones that come with it.”

 

“You know the official Federation reports have said that-”

 

“Pour the damn scotch, kid.”

  
\--

**Three.**

\--  


McCoy’s always had steady hands. He’d say it’s a gift, but he’s spent the last twenty years knitting sweaters in order to make it a skill. So there’s no tremor, no shaking, as he sinks into a seat in the medbay and writes up the report in the log.

 

Five crewmen dead, sixteen injured in the latest “diplomatic” mission. It’s the price that’s paid for peace, he suspects. But all the costs are ones he feels in his gut, no matter how many insane situations Jim manages to pry them out of. Everyone of them is a new chip on the shoulder that he’ll have to find a way to fill in later.

 

“Dr. McCoy, sir.” The kid’s breathing is a little short, has a little bit of a hiss. McCoy already has six probably diagnoses in mind before he looks up to see Chekov limping into the doorway, holding his side. Twisting his body. “I think I may have-”

 

“Broken a rib?” He confirms dryly.

 

“Yes, Doctor.”

 

“You’re wrong.”

 

“I am?”

 

“It’s probably two.”

 

The kid smiles, almost shy, as he makes his way to one of the unoccupied medtables. With a muted “Yo moyo!” he manages to hop onto it.

 

“Don’t rupture anything,” McCoy warns, pulling out a diagnostic scanner and running it. He’s off today; three broken ribs. “Heard you got us out of a bind.”

 

“Just some…” Chekov winces as McCoy runs his hand lightly over the injury. “Quick numbers. It’s nothing.”

 

“Sometimes it’s a numbers’ game. Hold still.”

 

To the kid’s credit, he only winces when McCoy reknits the bones. McCoy runs a final scan, before he nods in approval of his work and walks back to his desk.

 

“For what it’s worth-” McCoy pulls out a bottle from the bottom drawer. “-Your numbers up there meant less numbers down here. Don’t sell yourself short.”

 

Chekov manages a small grin. McCoy tosses him the bottle and he catches it with only a small fumble. The navigator’s eyes draft around the medbay, at the injured crewmembers further down the room, and unscrews the bottle.

 

“You want some, Doctor?”

  
“Hell no. I’m on duty.”

 

Chekov gives a light sigh. “Well, then. Za zdorovie.”

 

McCoy snorts. “Whatever you say.”

 

**\--**

**Four.**

**\--**

 

The last drink he remembers sharing with the kid comes six months later. They’re playing cards with the crew--poker, of all things--and he’s sweeping the table. McCoy suspects it’s that cursed brain of his, calculating odds and equations and whatever else the kid has in his arsenal.

 

Maybe he’s getting old. Or a fever. But there’s a wash of sentimentality and his glass is up before he can stop it with those damn too steady hands.

 

“To circling the drain,” he toasts. Because it doesn’t matter how often they scatter or diverge, something’s always going to be there to pull them back to their shared orbit.

 

Chekov laughs. “To the drain!”

 

They finish his last bottle of bourbon, which Chekov drinks a lot faster than the scotch, and he loses about a month’s pay to the brat. And the kid is red to his ears when explains that it was a girl back at Yorktown who taught him how to bleed them all dry. Scotty gives a low whistle, Jim a far too knowing grin, and it’s a night that feels a little bit like home.

 

McCoy’s on the other side of 40, and he still hasn’t figured out why it’s always the happy moments that feel like goodbyes.

  
\--

**Five.**

\--

 

The kid’s been gone for a few months now. And it’s a quieter ship for it.

 

He makes his way around the medbay, moving through a routine that he knows unfortunately too well. There’s a bottle under his desk, and a glass in one of the drawers. And he arranges them both before he faces the nearest window.

 

McCoy lifts his glass out to the big black. Thinking maybe once he’ll tolerate a miracle. That maybe he can manage a little faith in the knowledge that separate objects will manage to pull themselves back together once again.

 

Because everyone, including the universe he reckons, knows that a drink isn’t as good when it’s served for one.


End file.
